Heeey, Hannah Montana fans:D Kaylee here with a nice little Oliver-centered fic… Of course, Moliver, since it's my favorite, but that's not what the story's completely about.

(Oh, and in case you were wondering, I had to make a few edits on this chapter because I realized maybe I'm as dumb as a 'jerky worm-rat', as Oliver says.)

Full Summary: Oliver's mom is a little over protective sometimes. So when she suspects something has gone horribly wrong in his life, when nothing has, she sends him to Dr. Harms, a cynical psychiatrist who Oliver believes wants nothing else but to make his life miserable. However, Oliver is required a bit of homework before each meeting with the psychiatrist -- to keep somewhat of a journal to record his emotions. At first, Oliver is convinced this will do nothing but cramp up his hand, but as he turns pages in his notebook, he begins to know himself a whole lot better than what he thinks, and maybe discovers a few problems he didn't even know he had... Told completely through Oliver's point-of-view and journal entries. Oh, and don't forget the Moliver. )

I won't update too regularly because I have a life, and it's hard for me to find time to sit down and write something anymore unless it's required for school. But I'll try my best! Especially if you guys review and make me happy. Yay.

ALSO -- this is the only 'chapter' that is not told through journal entries, okay?

Disclaimer: I don't own Hannah Montana. Sorry to get your hopes up. :p

DEAR STUPID
CHAPTER ONE: Worms

You know, it is quite amazing how I allow myself to be put in such an incredibly ridiculous situation. I'll admit there has been a few times in which I let myself go temporarily insane due to my stupidity.

Well, er, not stupid. Just a bit clumsy in the brain…al area. Medulla Oblongata? Or whatever. Like I really care about science. They make you actually dissect things in that class. Freshman year, we dissected worms. WORMS. Where is this going to get me in my life? I'm not gonna work on a worm farm! Oh, sick! Worms are seriously gross. I mean, I may be a boy, but I have rights to be disgusted by creepy crawly things, too.

Okay, sorry, I tend to ramble sometimes about absolutely nothing of the slightest importance.

So, yeah. Where do I begin with my now horrible life?

Let's see. Most parents are normal. Well, scratch that, they're all a little odd. But anyways, my mom's a little bit different. And that's putting it as nicely as possible considering just the other night she was wearing a sombrero on her head at the dinner table. So, me thinking just like you would, I asked, "What in the name of Hannah Montana is that thing on your head?"

My mom, acting as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, went, "Taco night, Ollie! I decided to spice things up a bit! Oh, SPICE!" and started laughing at her own lame joke.

I don't quite know how to react in these awkward little moments she puts me in, so I just stare at her and sit down. Which is a brave move in my opinion, since it's a well known fact my mom can't cook anything even somewhat edible.

But this is only one of her little quirks. Her main oddity happens to be her over protectiveness. She's one of those mothers that annoyingly call you forty-three times a day just to make sure your Achilles tendon hasn't fallen out of place. Don't ask me what that even means, I really don't, but it's just one of the general health problems I guess you can run into at a typical day at school, or the beach, well, to my mom anyways.

So back to her over protectiveness. Well, I guess that when we have dinner at the table every night, and she asks me, "So, how was your day, Oliver?" I am supposed to know that I must go into drastic detail. 'Cause supposedly replying with a simple, "Oh, fine," means that I am a "depressed emo kid that wants to run away from home because he hates his mother."

So, because of me being so oblivious to my bluntness, my mom has decided that I would be a lot better off if I had "someone to talk to". Which makes no sense, because I'm pretty sure my two best friends know more about me than I do. And the two of them could talk my ear off. Well, both my ears actually. And I definitely could get a girlfriend to "talk to" anytime I want. And more than just talk to, if you know what I mean. And don't take that pervertedly.

But, yeah, I mean, I'm Smoken' Oken.

Well, Smoken' Oken apparently means nothing in Mom World. Because she is now sending me to a psychiatrist.

Just like you, I do not see her reasoning here at all. It is not like I am a suicidal kid. I'm a good kid. Well, sort of, I'm not the brightest, I guess. I mean, there was this one time at the mall where I saw this "jeans half off" sign. Imagine my embarrassment when I ran, rather quickly and too excitedly, into the clothing store, expecting girls to be walking around with their jeans literally HALF OFF.

Let's just say I have not walked into that store since.

But okay. Because of my mom, I am now sitting here in a cold (think Ice Age degree temperature), waiting room, hugging myself in order to survive from the bitterness. My company includes a stack of crumpled magazines, all with giant phrases such as "YOUR GUIDE TO HAPPINESS!" and "Love yourself before others!", oh, and there's this old guy with a polka-dot tie sitting across from me. He doesn't notice I'm here, though, judging that his eyes are completely shut and a really scary noise I'll classify as a snore is coming from his mouth.

Suddenly, a woman with short, jet black hair enters the room. She was dressed in all white, except her jacket was huge. She had red-rimmed glasses, currently placed on the edgiest point of her ugly, big nose. She was looking at me oddly with a black eyebrow raised and spoke, "You Oliver?"

With the way she said my name, I feel insulted. It was like she was pronouncing the name of a worm. And like I stated before, I hate worms. And me and worms, we have nothing in common unless some worm out there's mother is forcing him to go to a psychiatrist out of the insanity of her heart.

So with the same "worm"-tone, I reply, "Yeah, what's it to ya?"

"Don't get smart with me, kid, but Dr. Harms will see you now."

I didn't even bother wasting any more of my breath on this hag. But what's intriguing is that my psychiatrist's last name is Harms. And yet he's suppose to HEAL me. Not HARM me. I'm not even the slightest bit amused at the irony here.

Well, okay, I am. But only a little. Whatever.

I follow Ms. Crab-apple to a small room on the left side of a narrow hallway. I felt a little bit claustrophobic, which was a first for me, but when I stepped inside the room, I lost that feeling because it was huge. There were a few chairs, a giant green couch, and a wooden table placed in the center. Instead of claustrophobia, I now felt uncomfortable and just plain uneasy. Like I was trapped in an experiment. I looked around, trying to ignore how icily quiet it was, and how loud of a noise the soles of my shoes made against the tiled floor. Paintings of the Piccaso-type surrounded the tan walls, but before I could even examine any, I heard footsteps.

"Oliver Oken," a calm voice says behind me.

I spun around, startled. Dr. Harms was not anything of what I expected. For one, he wasn't a he unless grown men have cleavage problems. She had chestnut brown hair hanging limply on her shoulders and a clipboard embraced tightly to her chest. She, like Ms. Crab-apple, was dressed in all white, but wore white heels which were currently clicking hard against the floor in impatience.

All I could do was stare straight back into her hazel eyes I was so shocked. Transfixed, even.

We stood there facing each other for a total of about fifteen seconds before I was able to stutter out, "D-Dr. Harms."

She smiles at me finally, breaking at least some of the awkwardness. "Why, yes, that's me. Now that we've been properly introduced, why don't you take a seat and we'll talk?"

"Uh, right." I was going to argue with her, but she was a little intimidating. I'm sure many guys would find this situation a little fantasy-like, having such an… er… attractive psychiatrist as the one in the room with me, but I guess I'm not like most guys because I didn't exactly feel the need to start running away with my imagination.

God, almighty, this better not mean I'm gay, and she is going to help me find this out in some future session of ours. Oh, God, no. Sick, sick, sick.

"So, Mr. Oken, your mother has told me a lot about you. She says you're quite the comedian sometimes. That is, she says, when you actually talk to her."

I was sitting in a turquoise chair, staring back at the woman. She had not taken a seat yet. I felt even more intimidated, like whatever was to come out of her mouth was the way it was, and I was going to have to accept it.

So I better hope she doesn't start saying I'm gay. Dear Lord. Please.

"Yeah," I say. "I guess you could say that." I suddenly felt a burst of self confidence, which was weird when this lady frightened me. I found myself continuing with, "It just comes as an added bonus with the whole package. I mean, they don't call me Smoken' Oken for nothing."

She laughs. "Smoken' Oken, eh? At least you have confidence. Most people who see me lack it completely and it's my job to make them see the greatness inside of them."

"Oh. I mean, well, uh, I'm not cocky. I'm not the greatest thing on the planet, nobody is, we all have our flaws. And I guess I'm no exception. Even if I don't think there is anything really wrong with me right now. Mom's the crazy one. She's the one who should be in here, not me."

Dr. Harms smiles again at me. "Well, Mr. Oken, I've been known to bring out problems in people they didn't know they even had. I'm sure your mother has a better explanation to why you've been sent here than you being so quiet around the house. And whatever your problem may be, I'm here to help it go away."

I just stare at her because I knew I didn't belong here. I have no problem. I'm not a crazy person. I don't need help. I am perfectly okay with my life, in fact, rather happy about it. Except for the fact that I'm sitting in a psychiatrist's office at the moment. Maybe this is my actual problem?

"Well, this is our first session," she says after she realizes I'm not going to reply. "So I'd like to get to know you better. How old are you, Oliver?"

"Sixteen," I say, then right as her mouth opened, I add, "Almost seventeen."

"So… junior then?"

"That's right."

"Do you like school?"

"Eh, it's alright. I'm a kid, you can't expect me to love it."

She puts a pen to her lips. "Got any friends?" she asked.

I stare at her again. Was she kidding?

"Uh, well, duh."

She stares right back. "Excuse me. I don't know you even at all, Mr. Oken. For all I know, you could be the stereo-type lowlife of the school that nobody supposedly likes."

"Well, I do have friends. Two are the best friends you could ever ask for."

Dr. Harms smiles for the trillionth time. "So tell me about them."

"Well, let's see," I scratch my head, picturing the two girls who complete my life. Lilly's image of blonde hair, her many assorted hats, blue eyes, and skateboards came floating into my mind. I smile; she's so easy to describe.

"One of them seems to always be running on a sugar high. She's very talkative. But I've known her all my life practically."

Dr. Harms stares at me. "Alright. Does she have a name?"

I do believe she takes me as an idiot if she's asking such a question.

"Uh, yeah."

It was silent for about six seconds when she asked, "Well, are you going to tell me it?"

"And why would I do that?"

"You do realize everything said in this room is kept in strict confidence unless it's something completely serious like suicide, right? I don't repeat anything without permission."

Somehow, this seemed unbelievable. She was an attractive woman, no doubt married. And if I were a husband to a psychiatrist, I'd want to know everything or else I'd feel like she was keeping things from me, or having an affair with a client.

But that's just me. I'm insanely jealous of just about any guy in the world. Jake Ryan for example. Scenario: Jake Ryan, Zombie Slayer television star and heart-throb, comes to Seaview Middle School my eighth grade year. Outcome: Every girl falls head over heels for the punk. Except Miley, my other best friend besides Lilly, until she, too, fell under his spell. Believe me, when a celebrity like Jake Ryan attends the same middle school as a guy like me, there's going to be some ego damaging. And definitely not on his part either.

Dumb jerk he is. Jerk Rat is what his real name should be. He's a slimy, jerky rat. Like a worm even. I've said it a hundred times, and I'll say it again -- I HATE worms. I'm glad he left for good. He was supposed to be in Romania for four months and return, but he never really came back here. He was sent to a different school, which is okay with me. Now I don't constantly hear Miley talk about him. Which, I guess, she still does sometimes since he did kiss her in eighth grade and everything (which was flipping four years ago!!!!! Get over it, woman!), but I don't know. It's annoying. I don't like him. And it pisses me off a lot that one of my best friends does. Nobody should like a worm-rat like him.

Anyways. Now that you know how much I hate jerky worm-rats…

"Alright, sure. Her name is Lilly," I decide to give in. I figured it was going to slip out eventually.

"Pretty name," Dr. Harms remarks, and I just sit there not knowing how she wants me to react to this. So, she saves me the awkwardness and says, "Other best friend? What's he like?"

I hate when people automatically assume that just because I'm a guy, I have guy best friends. I don't know how, but mine are both girls. Really, I put up with a lot, and people don't understand just how much a lot really is.

A lot is listening to countless hours on three way phone conversations about how cute a boy-that's-not-you is. A lot is sitting on a bed while your best friends giggle and paint each other's toenails, and you don't join in because painting your toenails is anything but manly. A lot is being dragged by the arm into the mall, into every store possible, listening to the squeals of "THAT IS SO CUTE!" every two seconds, and then, even after all your whimpering, you are still forced to carry every single shopping bag, each weighing about three or four shirts' worth, so that by the end of the day, your arms can no longer function properly enough to even play your favorite PS2 video game.

So really. I deserve a freaking medal.

"Well, for starters, it's a she," I try not to sound annoyed, but oh well, I do anyways. "Her name's Miley. She's well…" I didn't want to say my other best friend was a national pop singer. I had kept her secret for so long, and I wasn't about to go pouring it out to a complete stranger. I focused my mind on Miley alone, picturing her long brown hair, her southern accent that made her stand out above everyone else, and just everything I thought about her in general.

But, for some reason, my mouth only managed to come up with, "She's… cool."

Wow. I feel so lame. I can't even think of a word to use for Miley. And she's supposedly one of my best friends. But it's not like I don't know how to describe her. She's just… Miley. Also known as Hannah Montana, international pop star sensation, that I happened to idolize with all my heart a few years back. Until, she revealed to me that she was really Miley. I can't exactly remember what happened except that suddenly my head hit the sand on the beach and everything wasn't so bright and pretty, in fact, I think I went out cold? And then Miley was looking down at me in concern, repeating, "Oliver? Are you okay?" until I finally found the nerve to look her straight in the eyes.

My best friend was the girl I supposedly "loved". I didn't know what to do. For a minute, I thought maybe I was in love with Miley. And then, the next minute, no. No, I was not in love with Miley. "She is one of my best friends, and that is wrong," I remember thinking even though my heart was still thumping out of control. Most likely because I was still in shock.

I mean, think about it. Your best friend walks up to you and goes, "Oh, hey, you know Britney Spears? I'm really her," and they are actually telling the truth! That just wouldn't be right! I mean, especially if your best friend is a boy, but you know what I mean.

"So your two best friends are girls?" Dr. Harms now asks, a question I was expecting, even though I thought I had made this quite obvious.

"Uh, yeah," I say as I watch her write down something on her clipboard. My eyes went wide, and suddenly my thoughts came out of my mouth in a very loud yell -- "THAT DOES NOT MEAN I'M GAY!"

She looks at me, eyes wide. "I never said you were. Calm down. But anyways, I'm not going to ask any further questions for this session."

I glance at the clock. It had been a total of eleven minutes. If my mom was actually paying for this, I was going to be even more upset about it than I already was.

"What? It's been eleven minutes! How can you tell anything about me in ELEVEN minutes?"

Dr. Harms smiles at me knowingly. "You see, that's the thing. I haven't ever had a patient who tells me much of anything interesting during their first session, no matter how long it lasts. So I came up with a plan to help. I'm going to give you a notebook. And your homework will be to write in it everyday. At least once. Go ahead and write more in it if you want. You don't have to let me read it, I just have to know you've written in it. If you want me to read it, just say so."

My mouth must've been open, because she then resumes her explanation, "Don't worry. It doesn't have to be a hundred pages long. You can write one sentence for all I care. I know you're busy with school and the work that comes with that."

"So," I begin, feeling slightly irritated. "You're saying I have to keep a DIARY? Those things girls keep to write about all their mushy mush feelings in?" I feel royally disgusted. The same feeling I had towards Ms. Crab-apple saying my name like it was a worm. And diaries were probably made for worms.

Seriously. She probably thinks I'm gay. Diaries are for homosexuals and worms.

I wonder if Jerk Rat keeps one. It'd be fitting.

She shrugs. "If you actually write in it, you'll get more of your feelings out in it. You may start to discover things about yourself you never knew."

Bullcrap, I think. A book is not capable of expressing anything of how I feel. Not even a little bit.

But, instead, I put on a fake smile and pipe, "Okay, sounds good," and take this light blue notebook from her hands and head towards the door. As soon as I hit the door, the notebook was going into the first garbage can I saw, no doubt.

"Oh, and Oliver?" Dr. Harms calls as I leave the room.

"Hm?" I barely reply.

"I know you're a teenage boy, but try to keep your eyes on my face next time, mk?"

WHAT THE --?!? I turn around, my face obviously on fire because she starts laughing. "Neehhff?" is what comes out of my mouth to my humiliation, which isn't even a word, but my tongue suddenly couldn't operate properly.

She just laughs. "I'm only kidding. Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow at five-thirty."

"Uh, right."

Tomorrow at five-thirty. Pshhh. I'm never coming back to this crazy lady ever again.

And I was not staring at her you-know-what's, thank you very much.

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Hahaha, I love Oliver. He's my favorite. Please review and tell me what you think so far:D